Free Aunt Dimity and the Summer King by Nancy Atherton Page B

gardens from running wild, make sure the plumbing’s in good working order, that sort of thing,” Mr. Barlow replied. “I expect I’ll do the same for Pussywillows, once Amelia Thistle becomes Mrs. Willis and moves into Fairworth House.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Houses like to be lived in, Lori. They go to rack and ruin if they’re left on their own for too long.”
    â€œI suppose they do,” I said. “It sounds as though Marigold Edwards knows her business.”
    â€œShe does,” said Mr. Barlow. “Some people think she’s flighty, but she isn’t. She has a good head on her shoulders, does Marigold. If Peggy Taxman is up to her old tricks again, Marigold will put a spoke in her wheel. I hope she will, anyway.” His brow furrowed and a shadow seemed to cross his face. “Finch is a small place, Lori. Folk who choose to live here have to do their bit or nothing will get done. Holiday-makers like to watch the sheep dog trials, but they don’t want to get their hands dirty, setting up the hurdles. They take, but they don’t give back.”
    â€œThey give money,” I reminded him. “They buy groceries at the Emporium. They have meals at the pub and the tearoom. A few of them even buy the pamphlets Lilian Bunting wrote about St. George’s.”
    â€œIt’s not enough,” Mr. Barlow insisted. “I want those cottages to go to people who are willing to do the real work of the village, not to tourists who think it all happens by magic.” He ducked his head suddenly and grinned sheepishly at me. “Sorry about the sermon, Lori.”
    â€œWhat better place to give it?” I said, raising a hand to indicate our surroundings. “But you’re preaching to the choir, Mr. Barlow. I’m already on your side. Residents have a stake in the community, visitors don’t, and I know which ones I’d prefer to have as neighbors.”
    Mr. Barlow stood.
    â€œI’ve enjoyed our little chat,” he said, “but I’d best be on my way. I promised the vicar that I’d have the vestry lamp working by Evensong.”
    â€œI should be going, too,” I said. “Bill will think I’ve fallen asleep in here. He and the boys must be eating their way through Sally Cook’s entire stock of pastries.”
    â€œThey could do worse.” Mr. Barlow smiled down at Bess. “Good-bye for now, young lady.”
    He caught her flailing foot in his hand and gave it a gentle shake, then retrieved his ladder and his toolbox and carried them into the vestry.
    â€œInteresting,” I murmured when he was out of earshot. “I wonder if everyone thinks Marigold Edwards is the bee’s knees? I don’t think Mr. Barlow would allow a paycheck to influence his opinion of her, but you never know. I believe we’ll have to meet Marigold for ourselves, Bess, and make our own judgment.”
    Bess flexed her toes and cooed, which I took to be a clear sign of agreement. I pulled the blanket over her foot again, then checked my immediate surroundings for stray socks, toys, tubes of ointment, and other baby-related detritus. I put those I found into the diaper bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, picked up the carry cot, and left the church through the south porch.
    My eyes were still adjusting to the sunlight when I noticed that I was not alone in the churchyard. Lilian Bunting was standing at the foot of the newest grave, unaccompanied by her husband, the Reverend Mr. Theodore Bunting. I could scarcely believe my luck.
    Lilian Bunting was a scholar and a local historian, but above all, she was an exemplary vicar’s wife. While Mr. Bunting viewed his parishioners through a benign haze, Lilian saw them clearly and managed them cleverly, for the good of St. George’s. She could bring order to a tempestuous parish meeting without offending anyone in attendance; she knew better than to pair Peggy